


Derivation

by anstaar



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors, Sarah Jane Adventures, Sarah Jane Smith (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Edwardian Adventuress at large, F/F, Family Bonding, Multi, adventures in time and space, friendships, the Nature of Reality, time lines fighting each other to be real, what did happen to Sarah Jane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstaar/pseuds/anstaar
Summary: History is what you remember, but just who is doing the remembering?The Doctor thought the timeline would be restored after Shakespeare was saved, but there are new questions that complicate that assumption. Who is playing Uptown Funk in 1985? Why are the Rutans so interested in his companion? Where did he put that special phone to UNIT? And, of course, why exactly does this all appear to tie back to Sarah Jane Smith?Meanwhile, it’s just another day on Bannerman Road, until Sarah Jane receives a postcard that dredges up a past that she’s long kept away from her young friends. Luke would be just as curious as Clyde and Rani to discover the truth of what happened in 2002, but he’s a little preoccupied by what currently is… that wasn’t always.Something is changing the past, but it’s not always easy to figure out who has the correct present.
Relationships: Sarah Jane Smith/Sam Jones
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	1. The Woman Who Never Was

**Author's Note:**

> a Doctor Who survival of various time line ~mystery; ft. 12th Doctor and a lot of 8th Doctor companions

**[The TARDIS | Time Vortex]**

The TARDIS console room is bathed in peace. Quiet too, apart from the comforting hum of a time rotor working exactly as it ought. The Doctor checks back in with his seventh sense, yeah, definitely a looming sensation that something’s wrong. It’s not that the console room is _never_ quiet and peaceful, it’s just that it’s a state generally only achieved when his companion is asleep.

Charley claims that she objects to letting him sulk over machinery when they could be doing something interesting. The Doctor would put forth the idea that she just generates noise and drama, but he can just imagine her reaction if he said that. Any quest to embarrass him is doomed to failure, but after last time, he did have to admit that she could come up with more instances of what might be called (perfectly reasonable instances of) drama on his side. And he’s not counting her false claims that he was ‘in a strop’ over her ‘accidentally’ tripping over his guitar, as if anyone would believe that after her multiple complaints. 

No, something is up. Something is _going on_ , a memory at the edge of his mind. If it’s a surprise birthday party, he’s going to have words – 

“Is that your disco stick?” Pipes up a high, young voice. The Doctor turns, remembering to look down after a moment of confusion. He’d _known_ there was something he was forgetting. He quite likes children, but the way they can just pop up unexpectedly in a room can be alarming. Usually the only people who can sneak up on him like this are just extremely boring. Children are practically the opposite of boring people, but they can spring out at you as if they have the protective boredom filter set to distract. It’s how they can go under things, probably. And the lad had said something. 

The Doctor’s mind has already pulled up all the relevant details. Sometimes he could almost wish it was slightly less brilliant.

“What was that?” He tries for a friendly smile. It can be so hard to tell how these things will land, but the boy seems unabashed. Unfortunately. 

The boy points at his chalk, helpfully. “You told the General your name was Doctor Disco. Is that your stick?”

The Doctor catches sight of the iPod that most certainly should _not_ be in this specific young boy’s hand. He straightens up, directing his fifth most intimidating look at the door to the console room. 

“Charlotte Pollard! Just what sort of music have you been playing for our young friend William?”

Despite appearing right on cue, Charley, as ever, fails to look the slightest bit intimidated or in possession of any shame. She just looks affronted, mostly, with an edge of ‘we will have _words_ ’ later about that ‘Miss Charley will look after you’ business’. Charley has some very communicative looks and can speak several types of frazzled with an eyebrow. And, he’s starting to suspect, wasn’t pleased at being volunteered as a babysitter. To be fair, he had needed some time to straighten things out. And her expression had been very amusing. 

“I have absolutely no idea, Doctor. It’s certainly not _my_ music.”

“He doesn’t need this sort of encouragement,” the Doctor mutters. He remembers when he’d taken Romana to see a Shakespeare play, back in her first regeneration. He’s not sure if he’s recovered yet from her conclusions about the revelations it offered on his psyche. The second time around she’d just laughed, which might have been worse. “This isn’t the sort of T E C H that he should be playing with,” he says at a more reasonable volume. 

Charley just stares at him. William turns his head back and forth between them, much more worried. He’s a generally well-intentioned boy, the Doctor will say that. Later actions in regard to the Doctor’s companions should probably not be held against him. He bets Martha would’ve been less charmed by Shakespeare if she’d met him at a grubby seven first. Probably. The man is remarkably smooth. 

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Will says.

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” Charley says, giving him a protective hug. Maybe the Doctor shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss the dangers he can pose even at this age. He doesn’t have a wife to lecture him about yet. “You know the Doctor just likes to be grumpy. Why don’t you go fetch something to eat?” 

The Doctor is still working up to a proper indignant splutter by the time the miniature playwright (to be) has vanished and Charley turns on him. “Really, Doctor, you don’t have to go full eyebrows on him. Besides, I’m pretty sure he can spell.”

“He’s pretty rubbish at it.” He points at her. “And that doesn’t mean get him a dictionary! We’re getting young Will back to her right time and place. No disco.”

“Thank god.” 

“I heard that.”

Charley gives him a smile that can only be categorized under ‘cheeky’. “You were meant to.” She pauses a moment. “What exactly is a disco stick?”

She dodges the chalk he tosses at her, laughing.

* * *

After young Will has been put to sleep (which had taken longer than the Doctor would’ve thought after such a day, and eventually involved the Doctor telling him a story he was almost certain wasn’t based on any of his plays – Charley had been equally unimpressed by the suggestion that she would have better luck getting him to drift off, or that a shortcut with a little touch of hypnotism would be just the thing) the Doctor and Charley sit together in the console room. 

Charley is drinking tea on her favorite chair. The Doctor is working on very important calculations for reinserting kidnapped historical figures back into their proper place in time, and absolutely not ‘doodling’, really, companions these days continue to have absolutely no respect. Even now that he finally has a regeneration that deserves some. Humans. There are lots of other, probably better, species he could be fond of. Just see what they’d do if he decided to break the habit.

“I’m starting to remember Shakespeare again,” Charley says. 

“I would hope so. He’s been all over the place. I wouldn’t that that even you would’ve missed him.”

She tries a glare. Some day he’s got to tell her it’s extremely unthreatening. “You know what I mean. So, we must get him back. Even with your driving.”

“Very amusing. You remember him _now_ while we’re in the TARDIS. That’s no reason to get complacent. And what exactly do you remember. The scene in _Romeo and Juliet_ where Mercutio suggests that they call upon a physician for the beat of the music sounds poorly?”

“Are you still going on about that? If anything, you should check for one of your speeches getting in there. I remember a lot of dramatic monologues.” 

The Doctor pulls on his labels, maybe a touch mollified at her acknowledgement of his excellent monologuing. 

“There won’t be any problems with that,” the Doctors says airily. 

“When people debate what the Bolshevik passages in Shakespeare’s plays might be down to, I’ll remember you said that.” Charley grins at him. There are certain times it’s easier to remember she’s from the 1930s than others. Admittedly, these days it’s usually a sign that she’s teasing him. 

“They need something to talk about. Besides, strong moral philosophy slips through much more easily than an earworm.”

Charley looks revolted. “Please tell me there isn’t some actual alien worm that psychically attaches to music.” 

“Where did he get it, anyway?” The Doctor asks. If Charley doesn’t want to marvel at the vast range of beings that make up the universe, he can wait to bring it up at a more opportune time. 

“There were draws full of all sorts of music devices,” Charley says, dunking her biscuit. “I managed to get most of them closed before he could get more. Luckily, he was more interested in trying to figure out the one he had.”

“He’s a clever boy. The iPod is meant to be usable by even complete pudding brains, or even humans, to be able to use – you should see the ad campaigns – but it’s still not bad for a boy from the 16th century. Maybe you should get him to show you how to use the remote.” 

Charley throws a piece of biscuit at him. He catches it, in an impressive display. Mostly impressive because it wasn’t a great throw. 

“Did it belong to a friend?” She asks, suddenly serious.

This is just the sort of thing the Doctor hates. You’re having a perfectly fine conversation, ready to detail a companion’s many failures at turning on a simple television, when she suddenly pulls out a question she clearly considers ‘serious’. It’s depressing. Brings down the whole mood. Dangerous chance of bringing on highly unnecessary sympathy. 

“Why would you think something like that?”

The faint annoyance is much better. “I don’t know. Maybe because it was stuffed into a draw of a desk in a dusty room in your TARDIS? Or maybe because you’ve had it next to you for the last few hours?”

“There’s a small human about. You never know when or where they might pop up. Though I suppose he’s more within your range of vision. Best to keep the future technology out of impressionable ears. Then there’s scanning it, checking to see if any of the songs have made their way into his plays…” 

Charley remains undistracted. Like a terrier. He blames her having known his last self. She’s too used to a complete lack of attention span. 

“Whose was it?”

“I have no idea> Did you see a name written on it? I know you’ve picked up a ‘Walkman’, very much not of your time. These things just collect in corners. Left by people with a terrible taste in music.” 

“So, it’s one of yours?” She’s smiling sweetly again. She’s let it go (at least for the moment). He suspects she’s trying to cheer him up. It’s unnecessary and annoying and the sort of ridiculous thing that she does because she’s a good friend who cares about him. A friend who stands by him even when he’s at his worst, and he’s always at his worst with Daleks. She deserves better. 

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to know whose it was.” He says, making sure to sound (extra) smug. 

“Why not?” She’s well attuned to his tone.

He tosses his chalk into the air, catching it and making it disappear. “You do get a bit jealous.”

Charley immediately scowls. “I do _not_ get a bit jealous.”

He nods. “I know. I was trying to be nice. You get a _lot_ jealous. I’ve lived a very long time. I have lots of friends. I’m a very likable person.”

“You’re a person a lot of people like to point guns at. I can sometimes see the temptation.” 

The Doctor pretends not to hear her not very quiet muttering, careful to make sure that he’s still blocking what he’d written on the chalkboard. It had to be him. Even if he can’t quite remember why. 

_Time is out of joint._

* * *

**[13 Bannerman Road | 2009]**

Something has been off about Luke all day. Most people probably wouldn’t notice, but Clyde keeps an eye out for that sort of thing. Everyone has an off day, but when that ‘everyone’ is Luke Smith, super genius and the son of Sarah Jane Smith, the whatever is bothering him has a much greater chance of signifying there’s some weird and wild alien adventure on the way than it does if Finney looks a bit narked. 

Plus, Luke’s Clyde’s best mate, and that means that if something’s bothering him, Clyde Langer is on the case. These days, thanks to the help of a certain someone, Luke’s a lot better at dealing with the day to day war that is life at Park Vale Comprehensive, though when there is something, he usually forgets the important lessons on not letting it show. Which isn’t so bad. Clyde isn’t going to go soft or anything himself, but even if Luke is still often uncool, it’s a look he’s pretty good at wearing. He’s making the choice. Clyde can be cool enough for them all. 

Anyway, if Clyde was going to start listing things out, first would be that he’s not at all overprotective of Luke, especially because of the aforementioned bit about how much more Luke can handle. Second would be that’s different from not paying attention, because of the also aforementioned part about aliens and such. And how Luke usually doesn’t try to hide stuff, so when he is, that’s a warning sign of something. But he won’t say what. 

It was a rubbish day at school. Clyde would usually say that most times school is pretty rubbish, especially compared to the excitement of what they get up to outside, but that’s just general, basically expected complaints. He doesn’t _like_ school or anything, but it’s usually not that bad. He can catch up with mates and kick around a bit and, okay, there are classes, but everyone has trials they must endure. And he wouldn’t admit it in the face of an alien ray-gun, but those trials aren’t always the worst thing. 

Today was one of the days when it’s not just about what was expected. It wasn’t just that Luke refused to admit to what was bothering him, as if Clyde hadn’t taught him those very techniques for blowing someone off, but that had played its part. It was just a grey day. One of the days where everything was too long, all the teachers had been bitten with some bug and Clyde was somehow stuck showing around the new kid. Okay, the last is more unusual, but the kid was both unpleasant and boring and Clyde had to spend his lunch putting up with his stupid comments while his stupid best friend was probably in the library, helping organize things. Rani had given him a sympathetic look, but she has her article. If he’d asked, she probably would’ve tried to lend an ear, but he knows how important it is to her. 

Luke knows how important it is to her, too. That’s the bit that makes Clyde waver. Usually, Clyde wouldn’t bring up Luke’s mood with someone else. You don’t go telling on people, and you especially don’t tell on your best mate to his mum. It breaks all the rules. Bothering Luke until even he gets frustrated enough to complain is one thing, worrying out loud around others (if there isn’t an obvious alien siting, of course) is totally different. It’s just not on. 

But Luke had promised to brainstorm with Rani. He had been looking forward to it. Besides, even if it’s something he hates, or, at least, doesn’t find interesting, ‘hate’ isn’t something Luke does often, you can count on Luke. He’s great for group projects. He always listens to people seriously. He doesn’t get distracted when it’s something this important to one of his best friends. That’s just not Luke. 

Clyde gives Sam a sideways look, wondering if she’s noticed. She has the same way of listening seriously to people that Luke does, between her and Sarah Jane it’s hard to tell who he got it from, and he’s certain that she has been listening to complain about the obnoxious new kid, but he wouldn’t object if she’s been multitasking a bit. If Sam brings it up, well, Clyde could just sort of nod along.

Plans for nudging Sam away from Clyde’s problems to what’s eating Luke are interrupted by Sarah Jane. He had almost the perfect opening, when Sarah Jane walks into the kitchen, her expression very strange as she looks at a postcard in her hand. And it is pretty much Clyde’s duty to go over to see what it says. 

“Brenda Winters is dead,” Clyde reads out, leaning over her shoulder to stare at the practically gothic lettering. “Who’s Brenda Winters?” 

“A name I haven’t heard in a long time,” Sarah Janes eyes have gone all weird and distant. 

“Someone seems to think you’d want a postcard about her death,” Clyde points out. 

Sarah Jane and Sam both give him looks, but at least that means Sarah Jane’s back in the present. Rani and Luke even abandon their brainstorming to come over to look too. Sarah Jane has that evasive edge to her tone, and they all know what that means. Especially when Sam bites her lip like that.

Later, Clyde wonders if things would’ve gone any differently if he hadn’t let himself get distracted.

* * *

**[Vission Advertising | 2002]**

The office screams ‘soulless corporate advertising firm’ at every angle. Nothing less could be expected, though the red-haired woman makes a note to try to make it a bit less obvious. Humans can sometimes notice when something fits their expectations too much. Or it makes any wrong element stand out. 

The woman looks over the ‘wrong element’. She feels no urge to sigh, but she’s not wearing any transceiver. He’s leaning back in his chair, legs up on his desk. It’s all well and good as a picture, but he will open his mouth and that’s usually enough to break it sooner or later. Anyway, he looks more confused than ‘casually confident’. 

They have a plan. Even mentally, she does her best not to add any adjectives. They have time to adjust. They have _time_. That’s what they need to hold onto. 

“Is it her?” The man currently referred Navid asks, finally, fingers on the edge of tapping on the desk. 

Cody, according to the name on the business cards, shrugs, not doing a good job of hiding that his mind had drifted far from the matters at hand, as he blinks back towards the point. “Could be, yeah?”

Navid gives the woman a look that would be pleading if he had less pride. His words grow more deliberate, showing off the patience he doesn’t have. “I would have thought you would know. Isn’t that the _point_.”

Cody shrugs again, looking a half-second away from losing the point again. “I think so, yeah?”

Tapping is probably preferable to strangling. The woman steps in. They need to make a start. 

“Then we’ll tell Vivian Smith that we’ll be delighted to meet her on Wednesday. To hear what she has for us.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”


	2. Memoirs of an Edwardian Adventuress (part 1)

Phade IV is a beautiful planet. It might not have a burning sky or hundred-foot-high frozen waves or any other pithily summed up unique feature to put in a list of top spots for the galactic traveler, but that isn’t a requirement. It has ancient forests and magnificent oceans and a large number of vistas. There would be no trouble finding a good spot for a properly scenic picnic. 

The human settlers were not concerned with finding a scenic spot to build. Considering the large amount of beautiful landscape the planet was endowed with and comparing it to the fact that even from the window of the tallest building in the town, Charley can only see not particularly fascinating fields beyond the blocky houses, she has to wonder if they had purposefully attempted to find dullest area available. Perhaps she should think of this as a worthy gesture on the settlers’ part, if they weren’t going to build more attractive houses, but, at the moment, she doesn’t feel particularly inclined towards believing in their good intentions. 

Charley likes to think the best of people, but she has limits. Being locked up in the mayor’s house so that she’ll ‘stay safe’ until her ‘marriage’ manages to hit those limits very quickly. Especially because it’s an extremely boring room. There are improving samplers hung up on the walls. Even watching the slow progress of a cart out in the fields through the window is more interesting. 

Times like these make Charley consider if she should take up journaling again. It’s the sort of hobby that has trouble written all over it, she can imagine ten ways it could lead to near death situations without even having to try, and that’s before the issue of the Doctor no doubt trying to read it or making comments about all the famous people whose journals he’d been mentioned in. Still, it would give her something to do in these situations. 

To be completely honest, Charley has never been very good at keeping up a diary. She would _like_ to be. After all, it had been reading journals of adventurers (even if some of them were more on the fictional side) that had helped inspire her desire to travel. She’s travelled and seen so much more than she’d dreamt of back when she was marveling over the adventures of Victorian explorers. She likes the idea of being an inspiration to some other child who wants to believe there’s more to life than what they’re told, because there _is_ so much more. Not to mention that she can actually talk to the people in the places she visits, which is a definite improvement. 

Growing up, Charley had begun a lot of diaries, full of good intentions, but she’d quickly ended up bogged down because it was just depressing to record that, once again, nothing very interesting had happened. And then when she _had_ started having adventures, it turned out that they were often very busy and active experiences that didn’t leave much time for writing her memoirs. She understands entirely why people wait to write theirs until after the fact or drag someone else along to write down everything for them. Presumably people who can write while running. Putting down entrancing prose and trying to deactivate a bomb feel like mutually exclusive experiences. 

Charley flops down on the not-very-comfortable bed again, having finished another circle of the room. Maybe instead of a diary recounting events she should try for a list of observations documenting the experiences of a traveler through time and space. Perhaps a speculative article on why human colonies managed to be both strange and yet strangely repetitive. Or historical human practices that had been exported to the stars for no good reason. Or instructions for Whist. 

Even after just a few hours, Charley recognizes the knocking at the door. It manages to convey a certain misjudged self-importance that Mr. Stallman can insert into any action. The prospect of Mr. Stallman could almost make being alone in the room seem appealing, but Charley sits up anyway. 

“Come in, why don’t you,” she says pointedly. 

Mr. Stallman, still red in the face, who has already walked in miss the point, of course. He’s that sort of man. He probably thinks that it speaks well of his character that he doesn’t comment on her interjection. Charley refrains from speaking on his character, because she was properly brought up. It’s often proved to be something of a trial. 

“Keeping well, my dear?” Mr. Stallman says, smiling like an idiot. “Excited for the big event?” He doesn’t wink. She can only imagine that he has some sort of condition preventing him, that he’s trying to make up for with tone. 

“Oh, immeasurably.” 

Mr. Stallman nods. It’s honestly impossibly to tell if he doesn’t notice the sarcasm or is simply not listening to anything she says. Quite possibly both. 

“Good, good. I knew you’d see it right. It must have all been very overwhelming. As I said to the wife, it’s not every day that a girl is so lucky!” Charley can’t restrain her twitch. But he’s not alone. She could almost be grateful that he doesn’t try to leave a space for her to respond. 

Mr. Stallman pats the arm of the cloaked man. The man doesn’t try to hide his grimace, but then, Mr. Stallman had ignored his snort at Charley comment. “The Minister here will explain the whole ceremony. We’re all looking forward to it. Lots of bustle and fuss among the women. They do love a good party, though you might get a few jealous looks, ha!” 

“Yes, very busy.” The older, grey-haired man detaches Mr. Stallman from his cloak. “So, I’ll get on with the instructions and so on. Once you leave.”

It takes almost another minute before Mr. Stallman is finally pushed out of the door, almost literally. The door slams on his ‘helpful’ comments. They wait in silence, until it seems certain that his footsteps truly signal his departure, before they both let out a relieved sigh, almost in unison. 

“This is another fine mess,” Charley says. 

“You’re telling me?” The Doctor says, folding his arms. “I’d say it’s amazing how someone can talk that much and say absolutely nothing, but it’s really very common among humans. Just on and on, and never saying anything of interest. Practically a quirk of your species. In the spotters guide.” 

“Oh, is that why people keep mistaking you for human?” Charley asks, trying to keep a straight face. The Doctor’s presence always makes a situation feel better. Or, at least, a lot more interesting.

* * *

“I thought you would’ve escaped by now,” the Doctor says, after he’s finished prowling the room and sharing his opinion on the needlepoint samplers’ uplifting messages. “There’s a window. A nice large one.”

Charley doesn’t point out that it’s also a large way above the ground. “Mr. Stallman told me that they would bring in a Minister to tell me about the ceremony. He said that the ministers are wise. I thought there was a good chance it would turn out to be you. These sorts of people always seem to define ‘wise’ as just being an old man.” 

The Doctor scowls, pretending he hadn’t been ready to start preening. “What if I hadn’t managed to take the Minister’s place?”

She shrugs. “I might have been able to get some useful information. Then I could’ve hit him over the head with a vase.”

He gives her a look. “What have I said about violence?”

She gives the Doctor a look right back. “Have you said something about violence? I probably missed it because something was blowing up.”

“It’s extremely risky. As was your plan.”

“It seemed more sensible then escaping to find you only to find out that you had just gone into the house I had climbed out of. Going around in circles just ends up looking a bit ridiculous.” 

The Doctor can’t argue with that. Well, he’s choosing not to argue. He can argue with pretty much everything, when he feels like it. 

“I suppose this does make it slightly easier to coordinate.”

* * *

“Is there something about me that suggest marriage material?” Charley asks, as they wait for the sun to set. It’s very pretty, but she might be slightly distracted. It’s all the people in the street wearing their best party clothes (which aren’t very nice, she’s almost grateful the mayor had decided speed was more important than making her a wedding dress, it likely would’ve been _dreadful_ ).

The Doctor scowls. “Aren’t you too young to worry about that sort of thing? Or too old? Which is the one that implies sitting on a shelf?” He eyes her. “Is this your way of asking for my blessing. I’m afraid I can’t give it. I know all about people wanting to run off to get married, and I usually don’t say anything, but this ‘mayor’ is a power-mad tiny despot with delusions of wit. Now that I say it, I can see how he fits your ‘profile’, but I’m afraid he still has to be stopped.”

“Very funny, Doctor.” She can ignore his mutter of ‘true, though not necessarily applicable’. Friendship sometimes requires ignoring certain people’s terrible attempts at humor. “I _mean_ , this just keeps happening. Venice, America, space… it seems the one thing in common is that there’s always someone trying to get me to marry them. I’ll start thinking of trips as the one where the man from the Hellfire club tried to marry me to the devil, or the one where the other man from the Hellfire club tried to marry me in a satanic ritual, or the one –” 

“I get your point. People just keep using the name ‘Hellfire club’ wrongly. I told Dashwood, but he was already part of the tradition of taking the name, so I suppose he had no room to complain. He didn’t have the knack of complaining in any room he wanted.”

Charley throws the lumpy pillow at him. “I’m being serious.”

The Doctor pokes the pillow, wincing. “And violent. This could be classified as a weapon. You’re not being serious; you just want something.” He catches her expression. “Ah, I mean, it is unfortunate that this keeps happening. I’m listening to what you’re saying. I’m all eyebrows, as they say on Delphon.” 

“I want to pick the next destination.”

“You –”

“And I want us to actually _get_ there. No accidentally landing on a different planet, in the middle of a civil war that can only be solved by a marriage ceremony.”

“…Where do you want to go.”

“Baltimore.”

He looks at her incredulously. “Baltimore. _Baltimore_. Why would you want to go there? Is it because of the film? I’m afraid that’s not a very good reflection of the experience. The rats on the streets, possibly, at certain times, but you can get that in any good-sized city, really. If you want really big rats, it’s London you should be looking towards. Have I told you about the Palace Theater –”

“Fine, I want to go to Boston!”

“First Baltimore, now Boston. Are you just naming cities that start with ‘b’ now? Is there a list?” He raises his hands. “Fine, fine, we’ll go to _Boston_.”

Charley considers his surrender. “ _Really_ Boston? Not New Boston or the Spaceship Boston?”

“Of course, really Boston, if that’s what you want. Though I feel bad for Baltimore.”

“You did say it in a very sarcastic way.”

The Doctor’s very good at looking offended, that might be why she has a hard time believing it. “I did not. I said it in a perfectly normal way. Besides, I would never take you to New Boston.”

“What did you do?”

“Why would it be something that _I_ did? That’s very accusatory of you. Placing the blame upon my shoulders already. A person stands up for the rights of others and suddenly they’ve _done_ something.”

“Did you get married? Is it another place you’re avoiding so you don’t have to admit that you jilted some poor woman at the altar?”

“You’re overly preoccupied with weddings.” He looks out the window. “I can see why they might be on your mind. I promise, we’ll deal with this one quickly. After all, we have to go to _Boston_.”

“I know we will. I trust you, Doctor.”

It’s the truth, the most important one. Charley tries not to think guiltily about the newspaper clipping hidden in her room in the TARDIS. The Doctor’s suspicions aren’t fully thrown off, but she’s not going to do anything _wrong_. What the Doctor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charley did face a large number of marriage 'proposals', none of which were particularly reasonable. Next time: the kid portion of the Bannerman Road gang tries to get answers about Sarah Jane, with Sam's help
> 
> (on Delphon, the saying 'all eyebrows' is used to describe someone who never shuts up. the doctor hears it a lot.)


End file.
